The Cave of the Fish

It winds through sage,
cypresses, rock rose –
the drove road long

shared by goatherds
and fisherfolk. At noon
they’d retreat to a high cave,

seclude their wares
deep in its shade,
talk there, or doze.

Though some of them
had a whiff of the beast,
others a hint of brine,

the path below led home
for both, neither
more true nor more right.

Today I sit at the cave’s
cool mouth, halfway
through my life.

from The Tree House (Picador, 2004), © Kathleen Jamie 2004, used by permission of the author and Macmillan Publishers.

Kathleen Jamie in the Poetry Store

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